The Other President
by Potterhead101
Summary: Loosely based on the chapter "The Other Minister," from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Barack Obama's first day in office seems to be the best time of his life, that is, until the President of Magic pays him a visit. R&R.
1. The Other President

**Disclaimer: **All recognizable fictional things belong to J. K. Rowling. All unrecognizable fictional things belong to me. All real-world things belong to their government.

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**~~ Chapter One: The Other President ~~**

Barack Hussein Obama was many things. A former state senator and legislator. A popular Democratic politician and a best-selling author. And now, he also happened to be the President of the United States of America. He was a tall, thin black man in his early forties, although, as he looked around the Oval Office that was now his after years of dreaming and scheming, he thought that he had never felt better.

Plopping down in the chair in front of the neat desk at the far end of the room, directly in front of the three, side-by-side, ceiling-to-floor windows, he folded his long fingers behind his head, leaning back and propping up his feet on the currently empty table. He knew that in a few days the table would contain and in-tray so overly full it would be terrifying to even consider, but, for now, all was well.

If he would have turned around to look out of the windows at the White House's smooth lawns, which he didn't, he would have seen the jovial crowd waving outside, but, as of yet, the mere sounds of their cheers were enough to sustain him; he leaned back as far as the old swivel chair could go before it gave a creak of caution, and he smiled.

Obama opened his eyes ever so slightly and peered once more around the nearly circular office. Several oil paintings hung on the gently covering walls; images of notable presidents long since dead peered down at them; among them George Washington and James Buchanan. Just when he had closed his eyes once more and was on the verge of falling of for a nap, a cough broke the silence. A curt, officious cough.

Pulling his lanky legs of the desk and sitting upright, feeling embarrassed that whoever had entered the room, a high-ranking Senator or the like, he presumed, had seen him so nonchalant, but when he gave the room yet another sweeping survey, he saw that no one was there. Feeling slightly unnerved but still sleepy, he lowered his head once more, this time somewhat more attentively, alert for any noise. Another cough.

Sitting upright once more, standing up behind the desk, he looked all around the room, somewhat nervous.

"Hello?" he asked tentatively, "Who's there?"

He would later wish he hadn't asked. To the left side of the room, the canvas portrait of former President Abraham Lincoln cleared its throat, and began to speak in a crisp, somewhat surprisingly high-pitched voice for such an intimidating-looking man.

"To Mister Barack Obama, the President for Magic will be arriving shortly to give you his introduction," said the painting, its occupant looking quite bored with himself.

Obama staggered backwards. A portrait of man who had been dead for however many years had just spoken to him. Furthermore, he had brought news of "the President for Magic," whatever that was. He tried to pull at his close-shaven hair in shock, found it impossible to do, and decided instead that a look of complete terror and confusion, which was exactly how he felt, would suffice.

Naturally, he thought that the long campaign and the strain of the election had driven him mad. However, how he felt when a painting of the former politician had spoken to him was nothing to the terror he'd felt moments later.

With a small popping noise, a man appeared before him, standing directly above where the Presidential seal was emblazoned upon the office rug. Short as Obama was tall, plump as he was thin, pale as he was dark, the man waddled forward with what seemed to be some difficulty, and held out a hand, which the President did not take.

Looking rather disappointed at this lack of manners, the man put his arms back under his pinstriped cloak and stared at Obama with his beady eyes, reflected to what must have been at least five times their normal size from behind thick spectacles.

"W-Who are you?" asked Obama, clutching his desk for support.

"Oh my," said the man, turning to the portrait of Lincoln on the wall opposite them, "Did you not tell him everything? I thought that, over a century ago when you took the post, you had agreed to tell the Muggle President of the day everything, Abe."

Lincoln looked up from where he had been twiddling his thumb and opened his mouth to speak, "Yes, but, alas, it quite loses the excitement after a few decades, I'm afraid. Even the stunned looks on their faces when they find out loses a bit of its humor."

The man shrugged the shoulders of his black robes as though this were a perfectly normal thing for a dead person to say, and turned back to Obama, "John Hangar, Mister President." He bowed, making his bald spot come into clarity. "At your service."

The President squared his shoulders. His mind had been working at maximum speed, and he was sure that this man was part of the elaborate world that was American politics, a world that years at law school had still not given him a complete understanding of. He was confident and positive that this man was of his own profession, which relaxed his slightly, or at least convinced him to speak.

"I, uh, understand that," said Obama, "but, I can tell by your clothes that you're in government," he gave the strange, yet clearly officious robes a sweeping glance, "Do tell me, what is your title?"

"President for Magic," piped up Hangar at once, proudly puffing out his plump chest.

Barack faltered again, "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean by magic. Surely not hocus-pocus, charge-people-too-much-to-watch-you-pull-a-rabbit-out-of-a-hat-magic?" The portrait of Abraham Lincoln gave a derisive snort.

"No," replied the President for Magic, "No, not that type of magic at all."

"Oh, good," said Obama, giving a rare, small smile, "For a moment, I thought --"

Hangar interrupted, "It's actually more of a wizardry bend-the-laws-of-nature magic."

The President's weak smile faltered at once; he felt his knees collapse as he fell back into his office chair. "Oh, I was afraid of that."

Hangar did not show any sympathy at the President's upset demeanor, indeed, he quite seemed to be enjoying himself; he was bouncing back and forth giddily as though he had springs attached to the balls of his feet.

"I must say, you're taking this quite better than your predecessors," smiled the wizard, "I remember Franklin Roosevelt. _He _tried to throw me out the window."

Obama was fully aware that his jaw had dropped and his mouth was hanging open stupidly, but he took no notice. He tried to speak out in shock: Franklin Roosevelt had known about this? He couldn't seem to find words, but Hangar saw the dumbfounded look on the President's face and spoke up.

"You're lucky that you're the American President and not the British Prime Minister; Kingsley Shacklebolt's Minister over there, and old Gordon Brown got quite the surprise when Kingsley appeared in a great puff of flame and announced the end of the world! The chap loves to get a good scare out of the Muggles, I think he rather enjoys himself," Hangar smiled fondly, a reminiscent gleam in his eye.

Obama finally found his speech again.

"I-I'm afraid I don't, erm, quite, uh, understand you," he said nervously, not making eye contact, "I don't know what you mean by 'Muggle,' and, even if you are a wizard, if they do exist, I don't see what I have to do with them."

Hangar looked confused, "Ah, well, yes, I forgot how little you know," Obama looked quite affronted at this, he was not, after all, a stupid man, in fact, he was quite intelligent, but before he could protest, Hangar went on, magicking up a chair from thin air (the President gaped), and taking a seat at the opposite end of the desk, looking at him with a fatherly look.

"There are witches and wizards in hiding all over the world," he began, and Obama listened all threw his kindly explanation about the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, the American Ministry of Magic, and The Sorcerer's Academy that was just down the road from the White House, invisible and intangible to Muggles.

"But, why," choked Barack, "I mean to say, you said, that Franklin Roosevelt knew about you- about your lot."

Hangar nodded, "Indeed, every president that's ever been knows about us, I have to tell them as a safety precaution."

"But," the President went on, "then, why didn't Bush, George Bush, the one before me, tell me anything?"

"Oh well," the President for Magic twirled his moustache, fidgeting uncomfortably and avoiding eye contact, "a funny thing happened with Mister Bush. I don't know how many things he chucked at me when I Apparated in, but I eventually just wiped his memory about magic and let him get on with his terms."

"Oh…. But, why-why didn't Bill Clinton tell me? Why didn't anyone? Any president? They all knew!"

"Well, my dear President, are you ever going to tell anyone about this?"

It was then that Obama realized that he would never, for as long as he lived, tell this secret to a soul, for who in the world would ever believe him?

Hangar smiled, "I can understand your shock, of course. In these troubled times, especially, what with the economic recession; those Gringotts goblins are to blame of course, they're on another one of their silly rebellions; and the war in the Middle East; the work of that Dark wizard, bin Laden, no doubt." Hangar glanced at his pocket watch, "Oh dear, look at the time, I really must be off." He stood up, said "Nice meeting you," held out a hand, which the president once again did not take, and then he promptly disappeared with a sound like a whip.

Barack Obama's mind was racing; all the things that were going to make his own term difficult were the fault of wizards. The thought had barely entered his mind when he muttered two words, "Life sucks."

The portrait of Abraham Lincoln, which had been picking its fingernails looked up and bored his brown eyes into those of the President, "Death is no better, my friend, believe me," and with that, he lowered his head to take a kip.

It was going to be a long four years.

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I might continue this, I might not, who knows?


	2. The First 100 Days in Office

**Disclaimer: **Once again, I am not J. K. Rowling.

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**~~ Chapter Two: The First One-Hundred Days ~~**

Days past. Then months. For a time, President Obama tried to convince himself that Hangar, or "the other president" as he referred to him in his mind, had been a hallucination afterward, and he tried to relax with his wife and daughters as they enjoyed their days as the First Family. Trying to ignore all hints of magic though he might, Obama could not stop himself from hearing the occasional snide comment from the magical portrait of Abraham Lincoln, who, despite how every textbook in the country praised his optimism, turned out to be a real downer.

"You know," said Lincoln, watching the President edit a speech he was to give that evening, "I find that, grand as it may be, America isn't really as great as it's made out to be."

"Gee, thanks," said Obama sarcastically, looking up from his typewriter and glaring at the painting, "that's exactly the mood the public will want me to take."

Another month or two passed, and Time magazine published a lengthy article about his first one-hundred days in office. For a while, it seemed he would never have to deal with the magical world again. Ever since he had told him off, Lincoln had even shut himself up and taken to pretending to be a normal still image, will helped Obama pretend that he had imagined it all.

But then, one day, nearly a year after he had been sworn in as President of the United States, he was forced to accept reality once more. He was sitting at his desk, and, at least according to the clock on his mantel, it was nearing midnight.

Behind his back, the huge triple windows that took up half the wall had their stiff tan curtains drawn tightly together, which had been Obama's only defense against the booing crowd jeering outside; he had signed a bill that the Congress had passed which apparently was not in the public's best interest, and was now regretting putting his name on the blasted paper at all. But now the angry yells of protest had ceased, and he thought it would be safe to open them and look out at the beautiful nighttime sky over Washington, DC.

Sitting down _John Adams _by David McCullough, he stood up, stretched his long limbs, and waltzed over toward the windows, grabbing the sides of each curtain and pulling the apart, expecting to see the dark, flowering White House lawns beyond. What he saw instead nearly made him jump. Standing right outside his window, his nose practically squished against the once-spotless glass, was John Hangar.

"Mind if I come in?" he yelled through the pane. Before the President had time to respond, Hangar had disappeared from the lawns and reappeared directly behind him. Obama plopped back down onto the spinning chair, rubbing his temples.

"You could have warned me!" he said angrily, looking up at the short old man.

"Sorry about that," he said, not looking sorry in the slightest.

The President clutched his hand to his chest, feeling his quickly beating heart; the sight of an overly-eager wizard standing outside his window in the dead of night certainly wasn't helping his nerves in the slightest.

"Well," he said, in a slightly annoyed sort of voice, "Why are you?"

"Hmmm?" asked Hangar, looking back up with his magnified eyes from where he had been playing with a plain, glass paperweight he had found on a side table as though it were a great treasure.

"You must have a reason," said Obama tensely. He was already quite contemptuous this evening; if a person he had hoped never to see again had turned up for no reason he might take a leaf out of Bush's book and start throwing things at him.

"Can't I stop by to give my favorite Muggle a nice little visit?" he asked, beaming.

The President fought to control himself from lunging across the table at the man right then and there, but the sight of a wand in the pocket of Hangar's robes made him think twice.

"I suppose," he said twitchily, very aware that a vein in his neck was throbbing, "What do you want to talk about?"

"Well, now that you mention it," Hangar said, sitting down in the same chair he had created on his last visit, "Anything really; the weather, your family, politics, the fact I'm going to bring some dangerous dragons into the country and fill it with a number of known killers."

"It has been a bit wet, I suppose," said Obama, looking thoughtful, "Not to mention - Wait a minute! What was that last thing you said?"

"Your family?" asked Hangar slyly, avoiding eye contact, his rosy cheeks draining of color; Obama looked unconvinced. "Alright, well… Minister Shacklebolt from over the pond and I agreed to relocate Azkaban prison to the middle of Washington, DC," the President's vein twitched dangerously again, "But, rest assured, it will be perfectly safe! We'll bring in some dragons to guard it!"

"You'll do no such thing!" said Obama, standing up angrily at his desk, "You can't just - just dump you're criminals in here!" He was fully aware he was shouting, but made no attempt to stop it. "You - YOU -"

He barely had time to think of a word bad enough to say what Hangar was before he heard several voices outside the door to his office; he had woken up the entire building.

"Mister President?" called the tentative voice of one of the secret service agents, "Is everything okay?"

Obama stood up, walked over to the door, and nearly unlocked it before he realized that he couldn't just let a swarm of bodyguards come in and see a magic-conjurer standing there looking flustered. He turned back to his adversary to call him the vulgar word he had been planning, but no sooner had he faced that direction than Hanger vanished; Disapparated.

"Stand back," he heard another voice say from the other side of the door, and, before he had time to react, the wooden entryway splintered to bits and well over ten burly agents came in, pistols loaded and prepared to kill.

They did a thorough search of the room before they turned to Obama, who was lying on the floor, having been pushed back by the force of the door exploding.

"Mister President," said one of them, kneeling over beside his boss, "Are you alright? We heard you yelling."

"I was -" he groped in the air for an idea for a moment as he worked himself to his feet, brushing splinters off his sweater vest, "I was talking to myself."

The guards gave him a curious look, and the portrait of Lincoln barely suppressed a snort.

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Alright, so I continued. It wasn't really because people asked me to so much as I got the story started and the rest of it just flowed out. Not to mention, I absoloutely love writing Abraham Lincoln, he's such a comedy item.


	3. The Committee

**Disclaimer: **Not J. K. Rowling.

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**~~ Chapter Three: The Committee ~~**

It took another three weeks and two visits from Hangar to finally put an end to the President's frequent attempts to deny the obvious: witches and wizards were real, and they were, he thought, quite peculiar, and, over time, even somewhat likeable.

Of course, this growing fondness for the company of the Wizarding community did not extend to Obama staying cooped up in his office, listening to the magical portrait and waiting for the President of Magic to show up, and on this particular rainy day, he was strutting around through Wal-Mart with his family. His daughters, Malia and Sasha, were growing like weeds, and after a complicated amount of paperwork to be able to show up at the store (he had had to rent it out to avoid the press), he was determined to enjoy the trip.

Currently he was examining a Chia Pet that had been made in his likeness, and between wondering how high of an afro the plants could make (surely not as towering as that thing he had had in high school!), and how many his wife, Michelle, would allow him to put in the White House gardens for a laugh, he couldn't help but grin in almost wild manner, though the smile was wiped off his face in seconds.

The Chia Obama, while still maintaining his facial features, had come to life right before his eyes and opened its mouth, saying in John Hangar's voice "Hello, Barry."

Obama, jumping backwards and colliding with a shelf of basketballs, which promptly fell on his head, causing him to curse under his breath with a sudden fury that came with the combination of being shocked and hurt. "What the --" he stopped before saying the horrible swearword he had been about to shout, and looked around. Seeing his young daughters a few aisles over, he lowered his voice and mouthed the word before proceeding, "--do you want?"

"Manners, Mister President," said the garden decoration, though it was smiling. "I just came to tell you that the Department of International Magical Cooperation is demanding your presence at a meeting."

"A meeting?" he asked. Hadn't he had enough of those yet? Didn't he deserve a break? Honestly, if he had to say 'change' one more time….

"Yes," continued the Pet, "a mandatory meeting."

"Very well," said the President shortly, reshelving the basketballs as he did so and wondering why, in the name of all that was holy, had the Wal-Mart shopkeepers put sporting equipment in the gardening aisle. "When is this meeting?"

"Right now." said the Chia.

Before Obama could respond to this sudden development, he was sucked into a sort of vortex that had appeared in the hall next to him, and was, for a second, suspended in a vacuum of blackness, before he was chucked out in a very small reception room over eight-thousand miles away.

He could tell it was a reception room by the many empty chairs lined up around the walls, which were covered in motivational posters, and by the tables covered in old magazines. Not to mention the huge sign hanging down from the ceiling with words "RECEPTION ROOM" painted on in large, friendly letters.

The room had no apparent exits except for a rather melancholy white door with chipping paint right across from him, though when he tried this means of escape he found it locked. Deciding he had nothing better to do, he walked over to one of the tables and picked up a copy of one of the magazines. Right away, his stomach gave an unpleasant lurch. A picture of himself looking annoyed and bedraggled stared up at him, followed by the subtitle: "Is Obama Losing His Touch?"

Throwing the magazine aside with a sneer, he picked up the next one, but felt even worse immediately. The sentence "When will Obama live up to his words?" blared at him. Going through the entire table, he saw that each periodical, while none were the same, all put across the same idea that he was not a very good politician.

"Like what you see?" came a familiar voice, and the President turned around to see that Hangar had entered the room through the white door.

"Not particularly."

"No, I thought not." The old man smiled. "This is the Room of Really Depressing Magazines. When a politician enters, they see themselves on publications mocking their abilities."

"So all these are fakes? Just magic imitations?" Obama asked hopefully.

"No, they're all real." Hangar said airily.

"Yeah," the President muttered darkly, "Well having a Room of Really Depressing Magazines is a stupid idea." He sounded like a child who had not gotten his way.

"Well, that aside, the meeting's all ready." The wizard guided his Muggle counterpart into the meeting room. Looking around, all that could be said for it was that it was even smaller than the reception room. A long table ran the length of the area, and around it dozens of political men and women; some as non-magic as he was, others decked-out in full sorcerous attire, sat, reading through many a manuscript. At the far end of the room was a blank stretch of muddy brown canvas next to a quite normal-looking clock that read 6:32 p.m.

Obama headed instinctively toward the only empty chair, next to a black wizard with one earring in his left ear. The wizard turned to look at Obama and said, in a mock-frightening voice, "It's the end of the world as you know it!" This outburst was met with general laughter, though the President, who had heard about Kingsley Shacklebolt's eccentric way of greeting Muggles during Hangar's first visit, remaining unsmiling.

"Alright everyone, settle down!" shouted an elderly Asian woman at the head of the table, who was barely suppressing her own giggles. "Order, please!"

All eyes turned to her.

"Now, as we all know, these are dangerous times, and it becomes our duty, as politicians, to put aside our differences of magical ability and to lead our people to victory. For this reason, we must put restrictions through well though out…"

The woman's voice was very dull and reedy, like a vacuum cleaners droning, and within seconds Obama was finding it hard to stay awake. He was barely aware of the committee going over dragon restrictions, and even less so of the rights of ghosts to own property, so that, by the time they reached the topic of how much gold should be put in a Galleon (whatever that was), he was virtually asleep.

He was shaken awake a while later by the banging of a gavel, which meant that the council had obviously just reached an agreement about the right's of non-human creatures to carry wands, and he immediately glanced toward the clock. It was nearly ten. As his eyes drifted away from the time-keeping device, he saw that the previously blank portrait had been taken by Abraham Lincoln.

"Well, rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty." he said slyly to the President, though this comment escaped the notice of the other statesmen. He was just about to throw a comeback ol' Honest Abe's way when the room shook violently, causing Lincoln to fall sideways out of his frame, and the clock to fall to the floor and bust. Several papers from the table also flew to the carpeted ground.

"What the devil is going on here?" asked Hangar, whose cup of tea had just been promptly dumped on Gordon Brown's head.

Pulling his wand from an inner pocket, Hangar caused a small window to appear in the stucco wall. Scooting his chair backward, he walked over to it and peered outside, his eyes widening ever so slightly before he turned to Obama and said "It seems that the United States army is outside, and I do think they'll be wanting their President back."

Kingsley sat up a bit straighter in his hard, wooden chair before speaking in a deep voice, "How did they find us?"

"Who knows?" said a rough-looking Irishman from one chair, "But I refuse to go down without a fight."

For some odd reason, most of the others seemed to share this opinion, and seemed to enjoy the though of going to battle.

Abe Lincoln, who had situated himself in his frame again, his top hat askew, gave a thoughtful noise before saying, "Hmmm. Should be fun."

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	4. The Battle

**Disclaimer: **Not J. K. Rowling.

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**~~ Chapter Four: The Battle ~~**

The room gave another gut-wrenching shake and Obama understood this time what was causing it.

"They're shooting at us!" he said, knocking over his chair in his hurry to stand up.

"Excellent deduction, Smart One." said Lincoln as the room gave yet another tremble, sending the large table sliding toward the left as the entire building seemed to bend in that direction.

"I'm out of here!" the President cried, running toward the white door and wrenching it open, only to find the waiting room on the other side had no possible exits. Slamming it shut again, he turned to the others and asked "How do we get out!?"

"We have to wait until the meeting ends at midnight," explained the Asian witch immediately, drawing a long, bamboo wand from one pocket, "Only then will the Vortex open and take us all home."

"Midnight!?" yelled Obama, "That's two hours away, and in case you didn't notice, we're being attacked!"

The witch gave him a stern look, but said nothing.

"Gosh," said the President, more to himself than anyone else, "You wizards do have a lot of rubbish ideas. First the Room of Really Depressing Magazines and now this! What if one of us had to go to the bathroom?"

The other politicians ignored, him, but congregated amongst themselves; Hangar seemed to be giving orders. After having always thought of him as a blustering, kindly old man, the President was quite shocked to see the look of severe determination on his aged face as he spoke, "Wizards, latch yourself onto a Muggle and draw your wands. Remember, if it comes to it, we duel to kill."

Obama gasped as the room gave another lurch and tipped farther left, sending them all tumbling onto what had once been a rather dirty, bare wall, which was now where the floor had been moments before.

"Fighting!" he yelled over the sounds of gunfire from outside, throwing of his suit jacket as he said it. "Is that really necessary?"

Hangar, standing up and nursing a nasty bump on his head while trying to put on his cracked glasses said simply, "Yes. I believe it is."

Those five words had been exactly the opposite of what the President had hoped to hear. Terrified, he ran over to the center of the room and looked up at the ceiling, which had been a wall only seconds ago, and saw only a nighttime sky outside. However, the stars looked closer than they usually did, and he asked to the others, "How high up are we?"

"We are in a floating office room several miles above ground level," piped up Kingsley Shacklebolt.

The President gasped, rubbing sweaty palms. "Alright," he said, "How are we going to fight?"

Even as he wondered it aloud, the Irishman who had suggested fighting in the first place waved a holly wand and small opening opened on all the walls, through which the wizards, standing next to a Muggle companion, were firing their wands at the approaching army.

Ignoring Hangar's frantic requests to join him, Obama pulled a slim black cell phone from his suit pocket and dialed his First Lady's phone number. Waiting patiently for her to answer, he tapped his foot, trying to ignore the sounds of weapons going off below.

Finally, he heard her voice on the other end, "Honey, where are you?" There was a hint of panic in her voice.

"Er, business meeting." he improvised loosing his tie and popping open the first of his shirt buttons.

"Business meeting?" she asked skeptically.

"Yes. Urgent." he continued, "Sorry that I had to leave you and the girls in the store."

"It's okay," she said, sounding slightly annoyed nonetheless, "I was just worried. I sent the police after you, and when they couldn't find you they called in the military. I hope there hasn't been any trouble?"

"No, not at all." he lied through clenched teeth a grenade flew into the room through one of the small openings. Picking it up, he tossed it back outside, where it exploded noisily.

"What was that?" Michelle Obama asked.

"Uh… The phone's breaking up." the President said, and he heard his wife's sharp intake of breath that always meant that she was about to start arguing. "Lot's of love. 'Bye!" he called into the phone rapidly, tossing it hurriedly outside.

Obama rushed over to Hangar's side, looking through the small window that the wizard was shooting out of, and immediately wishing his hadn't. A helicopter flew right up to the small window, and the pilot, whom he recognized as a five-star general, locked eyes with him.

"Don't worry, Mister President!" the general called, "We'll get you out in not time!"

And, on that note, he pulled a large weapon over him and aimed it directly at the wall.

"RUN!" Obama yelled instinctively, and the large crowd of politicians clambered to get into the Room of Really Depressing Magazines, few of them making it through the topsy-turvy door.

Suddenly, the roof was blown off of the room, showing the helicopter hovering, nose pointed downward, above them, the man peering into the perimeter of the small meeting room, raising his gun, undoubtedly about to kill the wizards, whom he assumed were terrorists, and preparing to save the Muggles, whom he thought were the kidnapped leaders of other lands.

Hangar raised his wand with surprising speed and agility, and the force with which he bellowed "BOMBARDA MAXIMA!" was downright alarming. Instantaneously, he shot at the flying machine a whoosh of hot air, which warped what could be seen through it, much like a heat wave.

The wind made contact with the helicopter, and, seconds later, it exploded, sending the general falling out and down into the field quite a distance below, where he landed, bruised and with a few broken bones, but for the most part unscathed. Looking up at the floating office building, he said in a hoarse voice, "Wizards! Just like in that book series my kid's always reading!"

Back in the meeting room, Hangar turned to Obama.

"You know what this means?"

The President shook his head.

"It means that we have a major infringement of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy on our hands."

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Three guesses what the book series the kid's always reading is! xD


	5. Dark Times Ahead

**Disclaimer: **Not J. K. Rowling.

**Author's comment: **This chapter is shorter than the others, and slightly less humorous. I made it less to continue the random mini-adventures and more to explain the current situation. However, I hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless.

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**~~ Chapter Five: Dark Times Ahead ~~**

The President of the United States was once again sitting in his office, as had become his custom of late. After several unhappy hours spent in a small, dark room being interrogated by the same agents who only yesterday had been at his beck and call, he was very tired, and very upset. The entire government was clamoring for his impeachment. Of course, they had done their best to cause a total press black-out. The Head of the FBI had decided that they would impeach him without public knowledge, let him move far away from Washington, DC, and put it about that he had died. However, the story had been leaked to the New York Times and, in no time at all, they had printed out the story that now lay on the desk before him.

"GOVERNMENT DISCOVERS SOME HAVE ABILITIES TO BEND LAWS OF NATURE - OBAMA KNEW: WHAT ELSE IS HE HIDING?" The front-page headline blaze up at him, and the most of the rest of the page was taken up by a large photograph of himself looking harassed, the same that he had seen in the Room of Really Depressing Magazines. The story was continued on pages two, four, five, and seven.

"I must say," said the portrait of Lincoln from the wall in a reedy voice, "I must say, I'll be quite sad to see you go. You really were very … interesting." Obama was shocked to see that the man actually looked sad.

"Er, thanks, Abe." the President said awkwardly.

He nodded solemnly.

There was a sudden knock on the Oval Office door, and Obama, thinking that it was surely another retched reporter or agent come to ask him pestering questions, wondered how quickly he could clamor out of the windows and run to Mexico. Not very fast, he decided.

"Mister President, let me in." called a voice through the thick, white wood, and the President was sufficiently pleased to recognize the wheeze of John Hangar. He stood up, taking a savage pleasure that his swivel chair had hit the window and given it a small crack, and walked to the opposite side of the room, letting his magical counterpart inside.

"You didn't Apparate inside," he noted aloud, walking back to his desk, "What if you were seen?"

"Who cares?" said Hangar glumly, following Obama, "The whole world knows about us now."

"Yes," said the President, settling down into his chair as Hangar did the same, "But surely you're not making it easier to use Memory Charms to reverse the damage?"

"I don't much care now," the wizard remarked in a dull tone, not at all like the care-free one he had before, "There's little chance of fixing this. You know, I'm being sacked?"

"You too, eh?" asked Obama, a little more dispassionately than he had meant to.

"Yes," nodded the old man, before saying suddenly, a bit angrier, "Do you know how long I've been President for Magic?"

Obama shook his head.

"Before your great-grandparents had even been thought about," remarked Hangar, "Do you know how many Muggle Presidents I've seen come and go? Thirty, not counting yourself. I've watched them plot and scheme, laugh and cry. I've befriended them, met their families. Seen them leave office, I have. Watched them die, too. For over a century and a half I've been here, and now they thank they can just get rid of me!"

Hangar seemed on the verge of either tears or a fit when another knock came at the door, although this new arrival did not wait to be let in as the President of Magic had, but merely rapped the entrance smartly with his knuckles twice before entering. It was a burly secret service agent.

Without even craning his neck, Hangar pointed his wand behind him and yelled "Petrificus Totalus!", sending the man falling to the floor in a crumpled heap. This sudden intrusion seemed to call the wizard back to his senses.

"Anyhow," he said in his usual calm voice, "Hungry? How would you feel about breakfast?"

"Breakfast?" Obama asked incredulously, "It's three in the morning!"

"Early breakfast." amended Hangar, "The best kind."

"Uh… sure." said Obama, "I guess."

"Excellent."

The President of Magic pointed his wand at the windows behind his fellow, causing the glass to shatter noisily, ripping into the carpet and tearing the curtains.

"Couldn't you have done that more quietly?" asked Obama.

"Yes, well," said Hangar sheepishly, "Let's just say, under current circumstances, I'm not feeling very bad about damaging government property just now."

The President remembered the pleasure he had felt upon cracking the windows and grinned back before asking, "Shall we?"

"Let's."

And the two walked out of the window frame together and into the White House lawns, where Hangar lead him to the Presidential car a fair walks away. The wizard took the drivers seat, and Obama took the passengers.

"Are you sure you can do this?" asked the President nervously.

"Of course," said Hangar, turning the key in the ignition and starting the car.

Hangar's driving was atrocious: they set off at breakneck speed, running through hedges and crashing down telephone poles, sending people jumping out of the way and totaling other vehicles, all before they arrived at their location.

"McDonald's?" asked Obama, and the President of Magic nodded happily.

Obama said nothing as they pulled into the drive-thru.

* * *


	6. Stuck in the DriveThru

**Disclaimer: **Not J. K. Rowling.

**Author's comments**: This chapter is a bit different from the others, but I think it goes along with the rest of the story pretty well, and it is fairly funny.

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**~~ Chapter Six: Stuck in the Drive-Thru ~~**

The long, slender black car was attracting stares from passerby as it inched along the McDonald's drive-thru. It was scratched and battered, with leaves sticking out of the grille and a steady stream of smoke pouring out of the dented hood. One of the men was an older gentleman, with a heavily lined face and a portly stomach stretching wide underneath his vest. The other was instantly recognizable; Barack Obama, President of the United States.

John Hangar, President of Magic, drummed his fingers happily against the stirring wheel, observing the drive-thru menu, and debating over what he wanted to eat. Deciding he would choose something at the last minute when the speaker asked him for his order, he turned to Obama and asked "What do you want?"

"Biscuits and gravy," the President said, leaning backwards in the leather upholstery of the chair. It felt good to be almost normal for a moment; simply sitting in his car, at McDonald's with, dare he think it?, a friend.

They waited for the slow line to move forward, and when it did they pulled up to a speaker, through which a woman's voice sounded, "Welcome to McDonald's, may I take your order."

"Yes, indeed, you certainly can," said Hangar pompously, with a bit more gusto than was required for such an informal activity as ordering breakfast at a fast-food restaurant, "My friend here wants the biscuits and gravy."

"Will that be all, ma'am?" asked the voice.

"No, I -- wait a minute, what did you call me?"

"Ma'am," said the voice, faltering slightly as though realizing its mistake.

"Do I sound like a 'ma'am' to you?" he demanded.

"Er -- I -- uhm -- well, no -- miss -- ah -- I mean…." the voice stammered then stopped, and Hangar continued to wait for an answer, his head hanging out of the rolled-down window. No answer came, and for a moment the President was quite sure he caught a glimpse of a woman in the company attire running away through a side door.

When the speaker spoke again, it was different employee.

"May I take your order?" the deep-voiced man on the other side asked.

"Yes." said Hangar forcefully, "One order of biscuits and gravy and one of … well … Is the sausage biscuit any good?"

"No." said the voice dully.

"Oh. What about the Egg McMuffin?" asked Hangar.

"God, are you kidding me? It is if you like eating plastic on a bun."

"Well, no, I don't like that at all. What about --"

"Before you ask me something else, sir," said the voice, "let me make it clear that I hate everything on the menu."

"Well … FINE!" blustered the elderly wizard, "Just get the biscuits and gravy and we'll be on our way!"

"Very well, that will be $1.44. Please pull up to the next window."

They did so, and found themselves facing an extraordinarily hideous old woman tapping her foot impatiently. "$1.44." she said blandly.

Hangar turned to Obama, "You have the money?"

The president looked curiously up at Hangar. "You mean you don't?"

"Of course not!" Hangar laughed, "All I have on me is in Galleons!"

Obama gave the wizard a dirty look before pulling his leather wallet out of his pocket and dumping its contents into his long hand. That's when he found out he only had the forty-four cents. Knowing that he was idiotic to do so, he reached across Hangar and handed the small change to the woman, who sneered. "You're dollar short."

The two politicians looked at each other with worried expressions on their faces. In an unspoken mutual agreement, they decided to improvise; to put of the moment they would have to face the embarrassing debt for as long as possible.

Looking directly at the cashier, Obama asked her, "Do you know who I am?"

The lady frowned for a moment, then a look of realization crossed her face, "Aren't you Barack Obama?" she asked incredulously.

Obama nodded proudly before saying, "Yes I am."

She looked awed. "Do you want ketchup with your biscuits, sir?"

"Uh-huh." he nodded.

Her attitude immediately went from one of flustered admiration to the icy look she had had before. "Then cough up that dollar, cheapskate."

The presidents looked at each other again, and Obama gave the slightest of nods. Unexpectedly, Hangar pressed his small foot down as hard as possible on the gas pedal, and the car zoomed off alarmingly fast.

Thus, the two men ran away from the McDonald's, and neither of them ever found out that their had been a dollar bill in the glove box all along.

* * *


	7. Bad Luck and Board Games

**Disclaimer: **Not J. K. Rowling.

**Author's comment: **Be sure to check out www . theotherpresident . webnode . com !

* * *

**~~ Chapter Seven: Bad Luck and Board Games ~~**

The projector made a brief whirring noise, followed by a quick click, after which a large, illuminated image nearly lit up one of the entire walls of the small, dark room. The picture, this time, was of a sincere looking Barack Obama giving his inauguration speech several months earlier.

"This picture was taken on the twentieth of January towards the beginning of this year," announced the camera's operator, a middle-aged man called Elexious Riffe, to the room's other three inhabitants, "It shows the newly-elected President of the United States."

Pausing to look around, making sure everyone had heard him, he turned back to the wall and pressed the button on the side of the machine, so that it made the same small noises, causing another picture to light up. It was a picture that had been taken from outside the White House windows, showing a glimpse into the President's office, where he was leaning back in a chair. In front of his desk was a blurred black shape that could have been a man wearing a dark suit.

"This image," continued Riffe, "was taken shortly after the inauguration, by a freelance reporter known as Rick Luther. It was sold to the _National Enquirer_,which said that the blurred man was a ghost, and it was published under the title 'Haunted White House.' It was almost immediately discredited as a hoax." He paused, and turned once more to the others. By the light of the alleged "ghost picture," he saw a trio of men: the President Obama himself, flanked on either side by burly guards assigned to prevent him from escape.

"Do you know who this man is?" Riffe asked Obama, crossing his arms and raising a grey eyebrow.

Obama defiantly shook his head and said, in an unconvincing jab at trying to sound bewildered, "A ghost? I don't know." This was a lie. If truth be told he knew exactly who the man was; President for Magic John Hangar, who, at the time, had only been half substantial in the office, the picture having been taken while he was Apparating into the room.

Elexious sneered but did not press the issue. Instead, he simply turned his back once more and pressed the button. A third image appeared, this one of the President lying on the floor of his office, covered in bits of wood.

"This image was generously given to our committee by one of your agents, Hickory Worthington, who was on guard duty one night, when he and seven other men heard raised voices from the office." Riffe gave a nearly humorless grin and went on, "When you refused to open the door for them, they destroyed it. You claimed that you had been talking to yourself."

Without waiting for a reply, which Obama was going to refuse him anyway, the man went on. The next image, which had been taken by a security camera in a Wal-Mart in nearby Virginia, showed the President halfway through a vortex that had appeared out of nowhere. After that was one of him lying in a floating office surrounded by dozens of wizards, who had been fighting the United States army. Then was a half-hearted looking John Hangar walking through the halls of the White House, too upset to even be bothered to Apparate in. Finally was a picture of a mostly destroyed car in a fast food drive-thru.

Smiling menacingly, Elexious turned slowly to the President, a look of revulsion and hatred etched upon his sharp features. Every syllable was leaden with malevolent victory as he spoke. "Do you realize that there is sufficient evidence to have you impeached?"

"Yes," Obama said jerkily.

Riffe leered and continued. "Do you wish to be impeached?"

"No." was the President's curt reply.

Riffe's grin widened, revealing jagged yellow teeth. "Then how do you suggest we deal with a lying scumbag such as yourself?"

Obama thought about this for a moment. "You could let me go be President for the next three years and forget you ever saw this stuff." he suggested, inclining his forehead to the projector.

Riffe seemed to think about this idea before he said, "No!" in a harsh voice, and then, in a bit lighter tone, "Nice try though."

The President's hopeful smile slackened into a sad expression at these words. Mentally, he was slapping himself for being stupid enough to think this would work.

"No," continued Riffe, strutting in a cunning manner around the room, his long, thick hands clasped tightly behind the back of his well tailored outfit. "No, letting you off the hook completely is not an option." He stopped in front of the projector after one slow lap around the vicinity. "However, the government may be willing to compensate. We are not, after all, unreasonable."

Obama muttered something that Elexious did not seem to hear, but which sounded something like "Try telling the taxpayers that." After that comment, he said a bit louder, trying to sound business like, "What is this compensation?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss it." said Riffe, being intentionally unhelpful, "Now that I have presented you with the evidence, though, you will wait in the outer office, and I will talk with my superiors, who will discuss your fate." Seeing the glum expression on Obama's face, he added "Don't be such a spoilsport about it! The secretary bought an excellent Scrabble game for us to play during lunch break. You can play it while you wait!"

"By myself?" he asked, remembering seeing a Scrabble game on his trip to Wal-Mart a few days earlier. It had distinctly said '2 to 4 players.'

"Yes, by yourself." snapped Riffe, and Obama shrugged. After all, why not?

Sufficiently pleased that the President was being cooperative, Riffe opened the door, filling the dark room with dazzling light. It took a moment for Obama's eyes to adjust, but once they had refocused he saw that he was looking into a small waiting room. Riffe and the two security guards had somehow already managed to shuffle out of the room through the opposite door. He distinctly heard the click of a lock.

Walking over to where a group of fold-out chairs were clustered around two tables, one large and the other small, he took a seat, and picked up an old magazine from the smaller one. It showed himself, and was captioned with a rather unflattering headline. He picked up another publication. It was very similar to the first. Looking at the small table, he saw that it was covered in magazines, most of which showed himself losing his grip. He wondered briefly if he was in another Room of Really Depressing Magazines, but decided that the place was all-Muggle, which somehow made him feel even worse.

To ease the sense of hopelessness that was crawling through his body, he diverted his attention to the larger table, on which sat a box labeled Scrabble. He opened the lid and took out the game pieces. He had never played Scrabble before, but had learned the basic idea a while back, when he had had to look into several false reports that said Osama bin Laden was using the game pieces to build bombs. He hadn't been (the bombs had, in reality, been made of Chess pieces), but that was irrelevant. The point was, he understood the game; apparently, players scored points by forming words from individual lettered tiles on a board marked with a 15-by-15 grid. The words had to be formed across and down in crossword fashion and were required appear in a standard dictionary.

He set up the game as required and began to play it by himself, although it was a multiplayer game. It was increasingly dull. After an hour or so, when he had fallen asleep, passing out face first onto the table and waking up with lettered tiles stuck to his face, he had been resigned to staring at the bored, and trying to use magic he knew he did not have to move the pieces around telekinetically.

To his surprise, they began to move around. The next moment, however, he quit trying, yet they continued moving, and he realized sadly that he was not doing it at all. This dismay was not long-lived, though, for he was sure that Hangar was trying to reach him, and he expectantly stared down at the Scrabble board, hoping that any minute now the pieces would form words and that his wizard friend would get him out of his predicament.

With a twinge of shock but equal excitement, he watched as the lettered tiles did not form words, as would have been simplest, but did a very complex sort of movement that made them take the shape of the President for Magic's head, which began to speak.

"Barry, where are you?" the voice asked, familiar as ever, but sounding strangely rusty, which Obama assumed was because the words were being formed by magic pieces of wood rather than vocal cords and a voice box.

He leaned close to the formation and said, in an urgent whisper, "I'm in an interrogation room in the White House basements. Lex Riffe, one of the Cabinet members, locked me in here! They're trying to impeach me, John. You have to get me out of here!"

Hangar looked momentarily surprised by the use of his first name, but jumped into action soon enough. Just footsteps began to be heard outside the door leading into the room, the wooden face fell down, becoming nothing but game pieces once more, and just as Riffe entered the room with a number of tough cronies tailing behind him, Hangar appeared with a small pop and said, quite too loudly, Obama was inclined to think. "Don't worry, Barack, I'll help you escape!"

Riffe stopped dead, looking as though someone had slapped him on the face, but the guards jumped into action immediately; they darted into the room, tackled Hangar, forcing him onto the dirty carpeted floor at gunpoint, and saying dumbly, "You're under arrest."

The wizard, once again in too loud a voice, spoke, this time saying a rather vile word in his anger, and Obama noticed, with an unfitting chuckle, that the four-letter word had spelled itself on the Scrabble board before him.

* * *


	8. McCain's New Groove

**Disclaimer:** Not J. K. Rowling.

**

* * *

**

**~~ Chapter Eight: McCain's New Groove ~~**

In the barely lit room that resided in one of the hidden labyrinthine tunnel systems under Washington, DC, Elexious Riffe was waiting. He sat patiently at his small desk with its bare top, occasionally giving the very plain door at the other end of the small room a hopeful glance with his yellow eyes. He glanced at the clock on the wall; it was two in the morning. Almost instantly his eyes grow heavy with sleep. Shaking the desire to take a good nap away, he shook his head vigorously, which was unsuccessful, and then promptly opened a desk jar and slammed one of his long fingers in it.

He lifted up his bruised and somewhat bloody hand with satisfaction, noting happily that the jolt of pain had taken away all desire of rest. Smiling maliciously, he resumed his waiting, but there was no need; almost at that exact moment, the door swung open and a burly security guard entered.

"Chalmers, excellent," he said briskly, standing up and gliding across the room in his well-tailored suit, "Status report?"

The man wriggled his thick mustache in an offended sort of way. "Golly, Lex, it's always 'status report' this and 'assassinate this guy' that with you, isn't it? Don't you ever just want to set down and chat?"

"No, I ruddy well don't want to chat!" Riffe piped up, frowning, "Status report!" This time it was not a request; it was a demand.

The agent, looking defeated, lowered his huge sunglasses in a sad sort of way before saying in a deep voice, "The Presidents are locked in one of the White House cells. We took the wizard's wand."

"Good, good," murmured Riffe, thinking so hard that he could have sworn that he saw some smoke come out of his head in the nearby mirror. He fleetingly, and seriously hoped that he would not catch on fire again, "Yes, He will be pleased. This is just the chance He has been looking for."

Without further ado he rushed Chalmers out of the room and pulled a gleaming black cell phone out of his pocket. Flipping it open, he quickly jabbed in the number with his pained finger and put the phone to his ear, hearing it ring.

Several miles away, John McCain awoke at the sound of his telephone trilling in the downstairs sitting room.

* * *

In the dark cell labeled 220, Barack Obama was pacing nervously, occasionally stopping to bang his head defeated against the iron bars. John Hangar watched him go about it without any comment. He did not think that the middle-aged man had ever been in prison before, and he often saw this behavior in new prisoners. It was not, of course, his first time behind bars in a very long life. A little smuggling Firewhiskey in the Prohibition there, a little smoking Mandrake leaf here, and he had found himself in local jails several times during his rowdy youth. But he didn't talk about that.

What he did talk about, at least at the moment, was all centered around how they were to escape, and, for now, the President was being quite uncooperative.

"Barack, please," Hangar implored, watching Obama continue his pacing and head-banging in a bizarre pattern. He did have excellent rhythm, "Help me think of a way of escape."

"Escape!" the President said in a high-pitched, slightly manic voice, halting his walking and stopping to stare at his wizard equal. "There's no escape! That would take a miracle!"

"A miracle!" exclaimed Hangar, jumping to his small feet just as Obama sat down, "That's just what we need! A miracle! Why didn't I think of that?"

A look of revelation spread across his face, and the President wanted to ask what sort of idea had just occurred to him, but before the words had even begun to from themselves on his lips, Hangar had dropped to his knees and closed his eyes, trembling slightly. He sat there for seconds, minutes, perhaps several sunlit days, cold sweat forming on his moving lips, eyes screwed up in concentration behind tightly shut eyelids. After a while, Obama felt it would be safe to ask, and did so.

"Er … what are you doing?" he asked nervously, popping open a couple buttons on his white dress shirt.

The old man looked up, brown eyes widened in surprise behind thick spectacles. He seemed to have forgotten the President was there. "Pardon?"

"What are you doing?" Obama repeated.

From the look on Hangar's face, he might have just been slapped. He said, with an air of incredulity that made the President feel quite foolish, "Why, praying for a miracle, of course!"

"You -- pray -- uh -- say what!?" asked Obama, "That's what you're doing? That's your grand plan?" He paused a moment, and continued his rant when Hangar nodded gleefully, "But that'll never work! You don't just pray for a miracle and then --"

But his words were drowned out by a sudden clicking noise from outside, and the two men turned just to see a floating ball of light turn the key in the cell door before disappearing in a puff of smoke that smelled of a strange combination of vanilla ice-cream, Axe deodorant, and petroleum. Obama hit himself once, quite hard, on the face, positive that he was going mad, but when he did a double-take, the barred door merely swung open, as though further proving itself to be true.

The President turned to his political fellow. "Johnny, if this works out, I'll never question you again." Hangar gave a weak smile.

Unfortunately for both men, it did not work out. Just as the stepped out of the cell into the hall lined with hundreds of thousands of identical ones, a series of lights came on, a door opened at the end of the hall, and four people came in.

Desperate not to be caught outside and punished doubly, they both hurtled back inside the cell, locking the door behind them. Hangar took the key out and put it secretly in his vest pocket.

The four indistinct fingers became closer, and took specific forms; Riffe was at the front, his slick grey hair gleaming in the flickering fluorescent bulbs, followed by two guards with the same square features and shaved heads. And then, from behind this little trio, emerged a political opponent of Obama, a short, squat old man who could only be…

"McCain?" asked the Commander-in-Chief incredulously, finding himself face-to-face with the last person he expected to see at a time like this. He would have been less surprised if Genghis Kahn, George Washington, and Helen of Troy had popped out of thin air.

"That's right, Mister President," said John McCain indifferently, shrugging his square shoulders. He looked strangely impressive for someone wearing purple pajamas.

"Senator McCain kindly agreed to meet with us to discuss the preposition I mentioned earlier," said Riffe, smiling, hands clasped in front of him as if he was trying to hold back the possibility of wetting himself.

"Well, what is it?" asked Obama, looking directly at the Republican senator, who only months previously had ran against him for the presidency.

McCain immediately made sense and got right to the chase in the way politicians only could when they weren't addressing the public. "You will give up the Presidency and let me in your place, or else." he said.

"No!" yelled Obama instinctively, and then, after some thought, during which his adversaries seemed shocked, obviously convinced he would willingly give up the title he loved in a millisecond, he added, "Wait. Or else what? You locked me in prison and pressure me into decisions, but I have no clue what you would do if I was to simply walk away. Telling the world I know about magic wouldn't work, because they already know. It made headlines. And I would think that losing my job as President would be the punishment, but it's the preposition instead. So what will you do to me if I don't comply, out of curiosity?"

The group of Republicans stammered. They obviously hadn't thought about this giant loophole either. After several minutes of awkward stuttering, it was McCain who spoke. "Give me the Presidency, or else I'll post that embarrassing picture of you at the Christmas party all over my website!"

Obama gasped in horror, while Hangar looked confused. "You wouldn't!"

McCain narrowed his eyes menacingly and growled, "Try me."

The President slumped down, averting his eyes from looking at his arch-enemies through the bars. He knew he had been defeated as he said, "Alright. You win. I just don't see how you'll get this through Congress; as soon as I resign, they'll want Biden in my place."

Riffe smiled, and the two servants flanking him chortled stupidly as if at an inside joke. The cunning Cabinet member who for some reason 99% people had never heard of spoke in a light hiss. "We'll take care of that. The government won't notice a thing. McCain will be giving you orders, and you will act as he says. No one need know you're only a figurehead."

Obama nodded, acknowledging how fool-proof this plan was. Begging for some reason in this reasonless world he had found himself in, he looked imploringly at the Arizonan senator asked, "Why are you doing this."

McCain shrugged.

"Eh, a guy's got to make a living."

* * *


	9. Social Outing

**Disclaimer:** Not J. K. Rowling.

* * *

**~~ Chapter Nine: Social Outing ~~**

The pseudo-President of the United States Obama jabbed his silver fork angrily into one of the small chunks of steak on his Styrofoam plate, carried it over a few inches, majestically swirled it in a pile of A1 steak sauce, and brought it to his mouth, grumbling unsettled and muttering darkly about the quality of the food.

"You know," said his companion Hangar from right beside him in the prison cell, where they still resided, but where a foldable table and some tableware and food had been brought in for their meal, "This is quite a bit better than the prison food in Nurmengard. Bah!" He made a face of disgust, while Obama looked confused.

"Nurmengard?" he asked, "What?"

Hangar opened his thin mouth to elaborate, but even as he did so a voice began to echo around the underground jail. Both men recognized it as Riffe's.

"President McCain has invited his prisoners to a victory karaoke party to celebrate his successful takeover of the United States government. All those wishing to attend will come to the main office in ten minutes, where they will be subject to food, fun, and friends," the fact that Elexious was sneering with distaste at the last few words could be perceived easily over the intercom as it clicked away.

"A karaoke party?" Hangar asked, more to himself than anyone in particular, then his face broke into a grin, "McCain's getting careless; he's letting us out of our cells!" He turned to his friend, "Barack, by any chance you wouldn't happen to have a dollar on you, would you?"

"Yeah, I would," said Obama slowly, reaching into his back pocket and withdrawing a leather wallet. He fumbled around inside for a moment and then withdrew a crisp, green banknote. He had kept one on him at all time since the fiasco at the McDonald's drive-thru, "But I don't see --"

His words were drowned out as Hangar snatched the one-dollar bill from him and stared at the face of it intently, screwing up his face and turning purple with concentration. Just as it seemed he could not breathe and Obama was getting worried, he let out a single, rasping breath and said what seemed like an incantation: "Suscitatio."

Peering over the man's shoulder to get a better look, Obama was shocked by what he saw: the small image of George Washington, America's first president, had come to life, and was coughing harshly and rubbing his eyes in an annoyed sort of fashion.

"Who woke me?" Washington demanded, scratching his head through his powdered hair and sending several small fleas scampering for shelter.

"That would be me," said Hangar sheepishly, "John Hangar, member of the International Federation of Wizards --"

"You claiming to be President of Magic?" asked Washington suspiciously, and before the wizard could even open his mouth, Obama nodded his head vigorously from just over his fellow's shoulder. Washington continued, "Whatever happened to George Wythe?"

"Wythe is dead. He died in 1806." said Hangar, "I took over after his successor Elbridge Gerry." The wizard saw the look of confusion on the President's face and added, "Former Presidents of Magic."

Washington looked slightly disconcerted by this bit of news and inquired, with a thick Virginian accent, "How long have I been sleeping?"

"Your image has been in this disconnected form, on all one dollar bills, since 1869." replied John knowledgably, "However, your body died seventy years before that."

Since he had been so upset to hear that the occupation of President of Magic had switched twice in two-hundred and ten years, it was surprising to see that Washington looked unfazed upon hearing the news of his own death over a century too late, and he merely shrugged and said, "That explains a lot."

"Anyway," said Hangar, looking back at the dollar, "I need you to contact the President of Magic. Tell him that we're trapped in a prison deep under the White House, and that we're being held here by John McCain."

If the first president understood a word of this, he did not show it, instead, he said, at exactly the same time as Obama, "I thought you were President of Magic."

"I was sacked several days ago, remember?" Hangar asked the room at large, looking sadly, but his reminiscent air quickly changed back to a crisp, business like manner as he said, "The new President is Nancy Riley. She's located at 324 Merlin Avenue, in Clayton, Nevada, you understand?"

Washington nodded without saying anything and walked right out of the side of his bill, just as Obama checked the expensive watch on his rest and said, "Look at the time. We need to be getting to McCain's karaoke party."

Just as he said it, all the cells under Washington swung open to let their few prisoners go to the party. Both Hangar and Obama headed out of the small chamber and walked down the long corridor to the main office, passing one or two fellow hostages as the went. After several minutes, the dark stone walls turned into stucco, and the barred cages turned into elegant oak doors.

They stopped outside the one labeled main office, expecting that when they went inside a low-key office party would meet their eyes. Perhaps it would be full of cubicles, with a small karaoke machine in one corner that nobody wanted to use. However, when Obama turned the brass doorknob, something he wasn't expecting in the least met his eyes. And this was coming from the guy who had talked to George Washington.

The room was quite as large as he had expected, but it looked like it had never held cubicles in all its time as a main office, if one could even call it that. Most of the room was dedicated to a large, disco-esque dance floor, with many tiles that each glowed a different color under the light of several funky lights and balls. On the left side of the room, stretching very far, was a bar, behind which were many huge shelves housing a variety of multicolored bottles. There were several barstools to accommodate patrons, and across from them, on the right side of the room, was a variety of booths for people to sit at and eat. At the farthest end of the room was a levitated platform with a karaoke machine on it. The walls were made of what had been manufactured to appear as aged brick, although Obama would hazard a guess that they were no more than ten years old, though he couldn't tell, because they were mostly covered by a variety of old sporting pictures, baseball teams, and other memorabilia. The air all around was bathed in hazy tobacco smoke.

However, for all of these eccentricities, what was perhaps most shocking about the room was that it was full of people. People dancing on the floor, people drinking at the bar, people eating at the booths. Waitresses were dashing all around taking orders, and a lone balding barman was cleaning out glasses with the same dirty rag. Not to mention that, there, right on the stage, singing "My Immortal" by Evanescence, was John McCain.

The Republican warbled a last wavering note and waited for the music to completely die out before he bowed, though there was no applause, and then he rushed over to his new arrivals, shaking their hands with his own pudgy ones.

"So glad you could make it," he said, smiling wildly with less-than perfect teeth, "I've been singing while we waited on you to turn up. You're the last arrivals. Sadly no one wants to sing but me and I can't hold a note to save my life. You think one of you guys could take over?"

Both men looked reluctant, but, before either could say anything, McCain grabbed Hangar and yanked him over to the stage, flinging him directly in front of the microphone and selecting a track on the machine for him.

Looking like he would rather be doing anything else, but appreciating that he was nice and cornered, Hangar glanced at the screen as the music began to play, and licked his suddenly dry lips nervously.

Words began to pop up before him as the machine emitted music, and before Obama had time to register anything, his friend was singing "The Impossible Dream" by Tom Jones.

Obama took some very brief solace that his friend got a fairly decent, respectable song that wouldn't degrade someone of his age. He didn't like McCain as it was, but he didn't think he would ever forgive him if he had forced Hangar to sing "Barbie Girl."

"To dream the impossible dream, to fight the unbeatable foe," sang the elderly wizard from the stage, and the President, which he still thought of himself as, even if his power had been stripped away, was surprised that his friend was actually pretty good at this.

Several members of the audience seemed to share this opinion. The barman was staring, absent-mindedly pouring far too much whiskey into his patron's glass, causing it to overflow, and many people had stopped dancing to look pleasantly surprised. Even Riffe, enjoying a hotdog with some security goons, was tapping his foot shamelessly on the cracked stone. McCain, whose sole intent had been to humiliate the old man, looked like he had been slapped somewhere in the general vicinity of his face.

"Thanks he all that, your old wizard friend, doesn't he?" asked McCain in hushed tones to Obama, who replied viciously with, "He's twice the man you'll ever be."

McCain waited for Hangar's rendition of "The Impossible Dream" to end to a thunderous ovation before he hopped onto the stage with him and selected a new track: "I Had The Time of My Life." A duet, meant for one male singer and one female singer. It looked like McCain was willing to do anything, even play a woman's part, to beat the former President of Magic.

Still, there could be no beating Hangar's vocals; his voice sang every part smoothly, but McCain still warbled pathetically, his lack of singing skills looking even worse compared to the surprisingly talented man standing next to him. The song finished, and Hangar was once again applauded, McCain ignored.

The Republican walked back over to Obama, looking sullen and angry, and he merely laughed coldly.

"Thank your better?" McCain asked hotly, his face flushing, "Alright, then. You, me. Dance off. Right here, right now."

Obama was taken aback by this sudden competition that he was being pulled into, and tried to withdraw, but the desire to win overtook him. He decided that he would take this chance to show the world what excellent rhythm he had.

"Okay," he said, snapping his fingers, "I beat you at election time, I can beat you on the dance floor."

Even though they had both been speaking in hushed voices, everyone in the room seemed to have heard them. The music stopped, and the disco lights ceased flashing. All around them, people were looking at the tensely; from the bar, the booths, and even the dance floor, which was slowly being evacuated to make way for the coming dance off. Hangar jumped off the stage and ran over to his partner. Even the tobacco smoke that had hazed the air seemed to be receding backwards away from the opponents now.

"What's going on, Barack?" the wizard asked anxiously. His look of pure concern made Obama feel nervous as McCain threw off his jacket and popped his neck, swaying and preparing to dance.

"McCain and I are having a dance off," said Obama, sweating now; despite his earlier jibe, he was now terrified he would lose, and he suddenly turned to Hangar and said quickly, "Man, you've got to help me! I can't do this!"

Hangar looked at the President determinedly and spoke. "Barack, if a man whose been alive for around two centuries can woo a crowd of youngsters with his singing, a man of forty-eight can beat someone twenty-five years older than him in a dancing competition."

"Well that's great for you," said Obama exasperatedly, as though explaining something for the umpteenth time to an ignorant child, "but you're a wizard! Can't you put a spell on me to make me dance better?"

Hangar scowled for a moment, then stood back, held out his hands to perform a wandless spell (his own wand was still in McCain's office, having been confiscated), and hissed, "Tanz!"

Immediately Obama felt alive with the ability to dance better than anyone had ever danced before, and he had a sudden passion to beat anyone who dare to contest him. He tossed off his own jacket, hoping for it to be caught by some adoring fan girls, but instead it landed rather unceremoniously in a bar patron's mug.

Knowing he could always buy a new one, he hopped out onto the dance floor where McCain had begun to break-dance, and he started to do some random poses that he had seen once in a martial arts catalogue. They didn't really fit a dancing competition, but he did them with so much rhythm that the crowd applauded.

After hopping around on his back, McCain pushed himself up on his feet and started swaying. He, too, was surprisingly good, but the effect was slightly ruined by the strange faces and weird grunting noises he kept making.

Now both men were doing some sort of salsa, and the crowd looked, though awed and impressed, like it was about to break out laughing. Ready to stop them, Obama jumped into the air with speed and agility he didn't know he had, stuck out both his legs in a mid-air split and spun around so fast he was a blur in the air. Finally he dropped down, landing on his hands, and started walking around like that. Then he fell down with exhaustion.

McCain, however, was still up. He ferociously shook every muscle in him like he was having a seizure and began jumping into the air repeatedly, landing first on one hand, then on the other, then on one foot, then on the other ….

It was over. McCain was going to when. Obama knew it; the jump had taken too much out of him. Just then, however, right when McCain was getting ready for the grand finale, the wall behind him exploded in a great poof of smoke and sent rocks flying in all directions. Suddenly, out of the destruction came a woman.

She had dark grey hair pulled back in a ponytail that ran almost all the way down the back of her skirt suit of the same color. She looked about Hangar's age, and everything about her looked grey; all her clothes, her pale skin, and even her large eyes. In one hand she held a grey wand.

She walked directly to McCain, who had stopped dancing in his shock, and introduced herself in a crisp, officious voice that sounded as though she had used it many times.

"Nancy E. Hamman," she said quickly, "President for Magic of the United States of America. Sent by Mister George Washington to rescue Misters John Ephraim Hangar and Barack Hussein Obama, who I have received word are being held here against their will."

McCain said nothing. Hamman looked over at Obama and Hangar and said, "These are, I presume, Misters Hangar and Obama?" She may not have recognized Obama, but she shared a knowing smile with her fellow wizard.

McCain nodded.

"I'll be taking them with me, then." she said, jerking her head at them to indicate that they should follow. She held out one long hand and summoned Hangar's wand from McCain's office, from where it zoomed into her fingers and she handed it to him. Looking like she did this all the time, she turned the room at large and said, "Goodbye."

Then she grabbed both men's hands and Disapparated with them.

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	10. Senator McDisney

**Disclaimer: **Not J. K. Rowling.

* * *

**~~ Chapter Ten: Senator McDisney ~~**

Apparation was not the pleasant disappearing and reappearing sensation that Obama had expected. As he held on tight to the President Nancy's withering hand, which he could not see through the darkness that had apparently engulfed him, he had the sensation of being pushed through a very tight tube. Then, the sensation lifted, and he found himself standing in one of the largest rooms he had ever seen in his life, and one of the grandest.

The floor was made of solid black stone that had been polished so that it shone brightly under the light of a giant torch that hung from the arched ceiling hundreds of feet above, and on every side of the great rectangular chamber another set of polished oak doors stood, labeled with strange letters that Obama could not understand.

The old, grey woman dropped his hand from hers, and began walking determinedly toward the far end of the atrium, toward the set of double oaken doors that no doubt contained her office. However, as she walked, she not only moved a farther distance _away_ from them, but a farther distance _above_ them.

The President for Magic seemed to be walking up an invisible hill, going ever higher, so that Obama had to look down embarrassedly to avoid seeming up the woman's skirt. He noticed that Hangar, who seemed quite nonplussed by the strain of Apparation, took no such precaution.

Nancy kept walking, both further and higher, until she was just under the huge torch that hung from the ceiling and standing right in front of a huge stone wall, as though at any moment she expected a door to pop into existence there. Her large pale eyes glared at the stone for a moment, and then, without warning, she stepped right through it.

Just then, Hangar reached out and awkwardly grabbed Obama's hand with his own pudgy one, and sat off at a strut to where Nancy had just went. He too floated upward, as gracefully as though he was walking up a set of clear stairs, but Obama hung limply beside him, at least four feet below the old wizard, who he was holding onto for dear life. If he was to let go of Hangar, he felt sure that he would fall straight down to the ground like a stone.

Fortunately, it did not take long for Hangar to reach the ceiling and pull his comrade after him through the solid stone wall, which lead into a fully carpeted hallway, as grand, with it's scarlet carpet and many portraits of former Presidents of Magic along the walls, as though it frequently got visitors who found their way two-hundred feet into the air and going through an apparently solid barrier. Knowing wizards, Obama reminded himself, it probably did.

Hangar let go of the "President's" hand and rushed off down the hall, toward the last door on the left hand side at the long passageway's end. He had obviously been here before.

'Of course he has, you idiot,' the "President" admonished himself mentally, 'It was his office for decades!'

Obama, in a much less excitable mood then his jolly magical friend, set off down the lengthy corridor at a much slower stride than Hangar, taking in his surroundings, and admiring the pictures of wizards from ages past that adorned the walls. The first one was of a scholarly looking wizard with a large head, hooked nose, and thinning hair that was curled tightly at the back of his head. A plaque just under his portrait read "GEORGE WYTHE - PRESIDENT OF MAGIC 1789 - 1800."

The next image glorified an older man with a kindly face and frizzy white hair that grew in excess. He was "ELBRIDGE GERRY - PRESIDENT OF MAGIC 1800 - 1853." After taking another look at the man's twinkling blue eyes, Obama walked on, and found that he recognized the next face: "JOHN HANGAR -PRESIDENT OF MAGIC 1853 - 2009." That was over one hundred years!

Stunned, Obama turned to ask his companion how old he was, but saw only an empty hall, and remembered that Hangar had already went into his successor's office. He supposed he should feel grateful for this act of fate. "How old are you?" wasn't the most polite question in the world.

The "President" silently continued onward, ready to look at a few more portraits, but found that he had reached the last one, "NANCY E. HAMMAN-RILEY - PRESIDENTRESS OF MAGIC - 2009 - PRESENT." Four magical political leaders in two-hundred twenty years, and Nancy was the first female one, just like what Hillary Clinton would have been, in the Muggle equivalent, if she had won the 2008 elections. Obama suppressed a shudder and the thought of his opponent being Presidentress (was that even a real title?) of the United States. He and the Clinton woman did not have the same sort of enmity between them that he and McCain (who had now, with his evil scheme, replaced Hangar in his mind as the "other president"), but Barack was not very fond of Clinton, ever since he had walked in on her treating an ingrown toenail during Election Day.

Realizing that his brief tour into American Wizarding history was at an end, Obama ran the rest of the hall and turned into the Presidentress' office, where Hangar and Nancy were patiently awaiting him, snacking on hard candies. This in itself was not a surprise, because in Obama's experience old people did enjoy their hard candy. What made the scene strange was the third person in the room, chatting animatedly with them. He was short, squat, old, and Republican …. Just like a certain villain Obama knew of. But no, this man could not be who he so reminded the "President" of, because he wore glasses, and McCain did not.

"Who is this?" Obama demanded, looking at the curious bespectacled man, who stood up, apparently nonplussed, and said grandly, in an oddly familiar voice, "I am Jon Chain McDisney, Wizarding senator, at your service." He bowed lightly, and then turned to the Presidentress and Hangar, saying "Well, I must be off! Good day to you all!" He waved energetically at the three of them before leaving, and allowing Obama to sit in the chair he had just vacated.

"Who was that?" said Obama again, in an incredulous way, as though the man's introduction had not been satisfactory.

"Jon Chain McDisney, Wizarding senator," said Nancy impatiently, as though the man's introduction had most definitely been satisfactory. As an afterthought, she added, "He's been in Magic Congress for some time now, as a Senator from Arizona."

"Jon Chain McDisney …." said Obama under his breath, as though trying to point out something about the name that he couldn't quite put his finger on, "Jon Chain McDisney … that's -- that's --"

"It's an anagram of John Sidney McCain, yes," said Hangar in a conversational way as he sipped from a cup of tea that he had pulled from his coat pocket. He went on, "Curious things, similarities and coincidences, aren't they? Both McCain and McDisney have names of European origin, that use the exact same letters, they both have the first name 'John', albeit a spelling difference, and both are senators from Arizona. Coincidences are very strange things indeed…."

"What if it isn't a coincidence, though?" pressed Obama, who could not shake Senator McDisney's strange attitude and resemblance to his arch-nemesis, "What if McDisney is really McCain in disguise? What if McCain's a Dark Wizard?"

Hangar actually laughed, making a "Psha!" sound as he said, "Barry, McDisney cannot be McCain. McCain does not wear glasses!"

Even Obama had to accept this logic, but he was strong in his belief that the so-called Senator McDisney was McCain, and brought up yet another point, "Why was McDisney here? I haven't see anyone but us since we came into the Ministry building!" This was true, but was quickly rebutted by Nancy, who asked if Obama knew what day it was.

"Uh … Tuesday, November the twenty-fourth?" said Obama tentatively, so unsure of himself that the statement came out of his mouth as a question.

"Precisely." said Nancy, and Obama felt relieved. "It is Thanksgiving Day."

This seemed to be news to Hangar as well, as he finished drinking his tea, and put the half-full cup back into his pocket, which then turned a much darker color from the liquid that was pouring out into it, his eyes grew wide.

"That would explain the good prison food," he said, rubbing his portly stomach in a satisfactory sort of way, while Nancy looked on disapprovingly.

"Prison food?" the Presidentress spat, "We'll have none of that!"

She snapped her withered grey fingers several times, and each time a different, succulent dish appeared on her desk. "Help yourselves." she said calmly, "When you're done, you can have the guest room."

With another snap, a door behind her desk swung open, showing a small, empty closet. The witch snapped her fingers one more time, and the room morphed into a large, cozy chamber, complete with two small but comfortable-looking beds.

With another click of grey index finger on grey thumb, Nancy's formal clothing changed to a nightdress of light black (or perhaps it was dark white), and Obama wondered if she ever used her wand. He saw immediately that she did, as she picked up the dark rod from her table, waved it elaborately at a wall and caused another door to appear. She then went into her own quarters, the wall melting back to stone behind her.

Left with no other options, the two men began to dig into the food that the woman had left behind for them. Obama, personally, thought that he had never tasted anything more delicious. As he dished more homemade cranberry sauce onto his plate, he could not help but think of how much better they were then his wife Michelle's canned ones, and suddenly felt a pang of guilt. It was Thanksgiving, and his family had not seen him for days. No doubt the tabloids would be discussing his disappearance. Feeling upset that he had though ill of the First Lady's cooking, he resigned not to eat any more of Nancy's. Well, just a few more bites. He took another humongous series of nibbles out of his turkey leg before pushing it away firmly, feeling tired from the poultry's sleep-inducing effects. Beside him, Hangar was smiling foolishly, rubbing his stomach again. He had just finished an entire ham.

Ready to take some time to digest their food, both men stood up and walked over to the guest bedroom and took their beds, but as soon as they had laid down, both stayed wide awake, staring at the ceiling.

Deciding to break the awkward silence that had cropped up, Obama commented, "Nancy's cooking was some of the best I've ever had." He did not want to insult his wife, but surely no harm could come out of complimenting one of Hangar's lot.

At that moment, Hangar himself gave a noncommental "Meh." before elaborating that the "turkey was a bit overdone." Then, however, his mood changed to light, as he said, still staring at the ceiling, "Same old Nancy." in a fond sort of way.

"You know her?" asked Obama, staring at his own stretch of cobwebbed sky. After a while passed without Hangar saying anything, he rolled over to look at the former President of Magic, and found that the old man was looking at him. Obama repeated the question, but a bit more politely. "Do you know her?"

"Of course," said Hangar, changing back to a light tone, "We were married for seventy years."

This information came as a shock to Obama, but before he could press the matter, Hangar had drifted, smiling, into a comfortable, deep sleep.


	11. Chaos in the Courtroom

**Disclaimer:** Not J. K. Rowling, once again. ::sigh::

**Author's Notes: **Sorry about this, but for this chapter I sort of had to suspend a bit of comedy to get the story going. Still ... I did a bit more editing than usual, so I hope you'll still enjoy this chapter. Read and review!

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**~~ Chapter Eleven: Chaos in the Courtroom ~~**

Obama awoke to the Presidentress of Magic's loud clapping and shouting of "Get up!" After several reluctant seconds he opened his eyes, and saw the bed beside him. Hangar had already climbed out of bed and tidied up after himself. Barack was still lying in a pile of messy sheets. According to the clock hanging across from him on the dirty stone wall, it was just past noon, and he was still tired.

When he voiced this to Nancy, she huffed impatiently while he climbed out of bed, still fully clad in the clothes he had worn the day before, and explained haughtily that he was still on Eastern time, while the Ministry's headquarters was on the whole other side of the country.

"I wouldn't have bothered waking you at all," the witch said briskly, "but John and I have to go to a Senate meeting, and we couldn't find anyone who would take care of a Muggle while we're gone."

She made it sound as though he was not simply a non-magical person, but a young child, or even a woefully behaved animal. For a second, Obama felt angry towards her as he finished fluffing up his pillows, but that sense of ill-feeling vanished almost immediately when he realized that, if he was following the conversation correctly, she was saying he would be allowed to attend a meeting of Wizard Congress.

Indeed, in a few moments Nancy had snapped her fingers, causing his ruffled shirt and pants to dissolve into a clean suit, and in a matter of seconds they had caught up with Hangar and McDisney in the main office. Before long, they were shuffling past the portraits of former Presidents of Magic, and running out of the intangible stone wall, climbing gracefully through air onto the black ground below. Or at least, the wizards did. Obama had quite forgotten to take anyone's hand, and fell several feet, landing painfully below.

The ache in his backbone quickly subsided, however, when he looked around. Wizards had filled the once-empty room, shuffling about hurriedly, not stopping to take in their surroundings. Obama was fascinated. For a second it struck him how truly powerful the magical government was. More powerful then the one he headed, it seemed. Or had headed.

He did not have long to marvel, though, because his three companions were shuffling away through a large set of doors. Excited, he hurried after them, making it into the room just before McDisney, in all his McCainish glamour, slammed the entrance shut.

Obama was in awe. The room around him was a huge rotunda, +with benches all around the rounded walls, going down step by step like an amphitheater. On every bench sat a senator, shuffling papers and wearing gleaming badges with their names, political parties, and states embossed in gold on the front. Senator McDisney's said "J. C. McDisney - R - Arizona", while Hangar's read "J. E. Hangar - I - Nevada." Looking down, Obama was surprised to see that the suit the Presidentress had conjured for him had included a nametag: "B. H. Obama - Guest."

The President saw that, at the bottom of the series of lowering steps was a small rounded area on the ground, shaped almost like a small office, complete with a large desk. Obama understood this to be where he must go with Nancy, who was now Head of the Senate in addition to her Presidentressial duties. As he climbed down to join her, Hangar and McDisney took seats next to each other, along with their fellow representatives.

He reached the bottom, and sat down behind Riley at her round desk, where, even now, she had begun to speak into a magical megaphone.

"Our first order of business," said the magnified feminine voice, echoing around the great chamber, causing the politician's educated murmuring to immediately cease, "is the matter of the upholding of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. I believe yesterday we left off at Senator O'MacFitzBrian?"

Several feet above, the same rowdy Irishman who had first introduced the idea of fighting the Muggle army so many days ago at the meeting of the Committee stood, looking strangely less rustic in a pressed business outfit. Barack suppressed a snort. Was there a more stereotypical name for someone from Ireland than O'MacFitzBrian?

"Aye, ma'am," said the Senator thickly, "I b'lieve y'sterday I was talkin' abou' 'ow I'm o' the opinion 'at we'd do better to wipe the M'ggles ou' complet'ly. I mean, after all, give it another ten years, an' who'll remember 'em anyway?"

All trace of a snort was erased from the former President's mind. Did O'MacFitzBrian really suggest destroying all Muggles? The wizards had been quick enough to go to war, but …. Well, were those without magical means any less warmongering? Still, though, the normals had never sought to destroy an entire race of people. Unless you counted the Holocaust ….

But surely no one wanted anything like that to happen again! It would be ludicrous to suggest that these wizards would agree to total destruction. Yet, here they were, and not a face in the house betrayed worry, except for perhaps Hangar's.

"All those in agreement of Muggle Destruction Plan 1?" shouted Nancy's magically magnified voice, shaking Obama out of his reverie. This was the moment of truth, as thousands of hands across the room went up. The Presidentress and her predecessor seemed the only ones opposed to the idea. Barack's heart sank as the hands went back down.

Soon, McDisney was the only fellow with his hand still boldly in the air, and finally, far below him, the magical leader raised an eyebrow quizzically. "Yes, Jon? Have you something to say on the matter."

"I do, Your Magicalness," the small man piped up, and Nancy reached for her megaphone again, saying that "the Stand recognizes Jon Chain McDisney, Republican Senator from Arkansas."

Far above, McDisney stood, shaking his flowing blue robes around him. They seemed to be made of some sort of scaly material. He cleared his throat briefly, and, after much ado, spoke.

"Friends, wizards, countrymen," began the Senator, "lend me your ears; I too shall come to bury Muggles, not to praise them. I am quite sure all of you will agree with me on this tragic passing, and yet, it is, I believe, a necessary evil, for these beasts of the world have been our enemies long enough!"

He paused dramatically for a moment, and the gap was barely noticeable as the room filled with thunderous applause. Smiling, McDisney continued.

"Yet there are those among us who will not support this move, among them our dear Presidentress, Nancy E. Hamman-Riley." Another pause, this one filled with gasps of theatrical shock. "Might I request a new President of Magic. Me, perhaps?"

The Senator smiled wickedly, but once again the crowd around him applauded, apparently mistaking his evil leer for a look of genuine political comfort and sincerity.

What happened next the President would always remember as a blur, and whenever he would try and recall the memory it would come to him much as one sees a video that goes by far too quick and is being played far too slowly; blurry, gritty, going by frame-by-frame.

First, way up high, Hangar jumped from his seat, pulling a wand from his cloak as he did so. Without hesitation, his grayish eyes full of fire, he pointed the stick at the large chandelier above the rotunda, shouting words that Obama did not catch. In no time it was falling from the sky, sending shattering crystal everywhere, and the representatives running away screaming. Or, most of them. Not all.

Some pulled out their own wands, pointing them at people, apparently randomly, and shouting unpleasant spells that resulted in several fellow wizards falling, paralyzed, down the aisles as others ran over them.

The desk was knocked over as Nancy began to below curses, and next something caught fire, which spread throughout the room quickly, eating away chairs, melting paint off the walls, leaving nothing but frightened men and women yelling water spells to extinguish the flames.

In the midst of the chaos, someone walked up behind Obama, putting a rag doused with something over his respiratory system. As everything faded away, and the screams became more distant, the Democrat got one look at his attacker. The dictatorial McDisney, who had just overthrown the system to put himself in charge, resulting in this chaos, which was preceded by thunderous applause.

Yet, as the cackling old man looked down at the fallen Barack Obama, he removed his glasses, and Obama saw he had been right; McDisney was McCain. McCain was McDisney. So John had overthrown the Muggle America, so Jon had the Wizarding one.


End file.
